Becca grinned. Okay, maybe this Wayne guy wasn’t so bad after all. “Thanks, Wayne. I mean it. I didn’t realize how much I needed to talk. Get it out.”
“Yeah, been there. And would give anything to have it back. But I lost sight of what I had more than once. Luckily, I had a tough as nails woman to set me straight.” He stood and scratched at his shaggy beard. “Need to make a round and check on the fellas.”
Becca fell back into the sofa, a wrist against her forehead. It amazed her sometimes how much experience accounted for in psychology and counseling. Wayne’s experiences made him the perfect therapist for this particular situation. Everyone had a story, and each story could benefit someone else if they were willing to listen. Learning the hard way sucked by comparison. No, find someone who knew more, shut up and listen. Still, in the end, the old axiom “physician heal thyself” would prove the only cure.
She worked herself off the couch, placed the glass in the sink, the empty bottle in the trash, and headed upstairs. After a peek in on Paige, who lay curled up under the blankets, not even her head showing, Becca went to her room and prepared for bed. The king-sized mattress under a sprawling canopy looked too big…and lonely. She wished Marlowe was here tonight. She needed him. Needed to feel him, and remember. Becca went to the window to draw the curtains closed. She noticed a flicker of lights in the forest beyond the yard. The boys must be back at it. She grinned. At least someone was getting lucky tonight.
CHAPTER
27
The team gathered at Metro, sequestered behind a series of temporary partitions positioned at the rear of the squad room. A cramped rectangular space with a table, metal folding chairs, and a large blackboard with cork panels inset on each side had been sectioned off for their use, allowing for a small measure of privacy. An array of new photos plastered the big board, and Marlowe shied from examining them too closely. No need, each ingrained in his mind, but today he wanted to ride the pleasant mood infusing the team in spite of the present matter of the Heretic. Not to imply they took it less than seriously, but the fact one of their own had dodged a date with Saint Peter lightened their collective hearts. Koop denied his worry and swore he would flay anyone who told Spence about his breakdown. Kline seemed the most at ease. Since their talk, her demeanor had changed drastically. She even cracked a few jokes, which met with more astonishment than laughter. Bateman had the floor and appeared to relish the momentary spotlight.
“Teresa Crimshaw, eighty-four, resident of Rockford Assisted Living. Appears she had a stroke a year or so ago; her kids placed her in the home. Still got around okay. Before Rockford, she lived in Lee, Alabama. Born there and stayed put up until the move to Rockford.”
“How does she tie in with the others? With Marshall?” asked Marlowe.
“Taught Sunday school for years at Lee Fellowship Baptist. Small church, only a dozen or so kids under sixteen at any one time. Kids that age all had the same teacher until graduating to the youth group. Crimshaw supervised the children’s class and conducted what they called Kids’ Church—babysitter while the adults were in the worship service, essentially.” Bateman flipped pages in the file and cleared his throat. “Marshall attended the church until heading off to college at Oakwood.”
“So, he is backtracking. But why? The first two knew his daughter, the second knew the wife and the girl, but Crimshaw wouldn’t have met either. And why a teacher instead of the pastor?” Kline received a photo from Bateman of Ms. Crimshaw, taken on her last birthday, a party thrown at the assisted living home, and pinned it to the board.
“Is the pastor still there?” asked Marlowe.
“Um. Not sure. Long time ago, but I’ll check on it,” said Bateman.
“Do that. He could be next on the list if he’s still alive.” Bateman nodded, but stood pat with a blank look on his face. “Now, Bateman.”
“Oh, yeah. Right.” He disappeared beyond the makeshift wall.
“Recap it for us, Kline.” Marlowe allowed his eyes to find the board, scanning each photo while scribbling absently on a sheet of paper in front of him.
Kline pointed to the first photo. “Weaver, burned at the stake—Marshall’s most recent pastor. They were friends, and Weaver knew the daughter, Jenny. Grayson was the preacher where Marshall met his wife and stepdaughter to be. Wife, Julie, died before the move to Walnut Grove. Crimshaw, his teacher during childhood. The gap is while he was at college. The minister at Oakwood’s long gone. It’s a revolving door, most serve only a couple of years, and we don’t expect any of them to be a target. If the pattern holds, which I think it will, the pastor at Lee while Marshall attended is the last possible victim.”
Marlowe nodded. “I agree. Once Bateman gets a location on him, we’ll get County to bring him into protective custody…”
“Uh, Boss…” Bateman stepped into view, his expression dumbfounded.
“The pastor?” Marlowe knew the answer before Bateman nodded. His heart fell into the pit of his stomach.
* * *
The lake lay placid, undisturbed by a single ripple. Birds sang as they darted about in a blue sky filled with mercurial puffs of billowy white clouds. From a twisted oak near the rustic log cabin, a corpse hung suspended by the wrists from a knotted branch. Arterial spray had painted the body head to toe, which dried into a brownish-red suit. An inverted cross carved deep into the forehead stood out in bone white, and pinkish-black charred blisters the size of nickels dotted the torso, chest, and legs. An old wave of dizziness crept out from a buried corridor in Marlowe’s mind and set the world asway.
“Never seen nothing like it,” said a portly deputy. “Bastard’ll burn in hell for this.”
Marlowe nodded, waiting for the fog to clear and the world to settle. Koop strolled slow circuits around the victim, nudging a turn now and again with a penlight.
“He didn’t dally with this one. Either that or the old man couldn’t keep his head lifted for too long.” Koop indicated the metal piece sticking into the corpse’s neck and chest. “Severed the carotid artery and the jugular. The victim would have died in minutes even without the added trauma of the burns.”
“Clarence Cecil.” A tall man, the local police chief, late forties and pencil thin, pointed to the body. “Pastor at Lee Fellowship for more ‘an thirty years. Damn shame. Good man.” He glanced at Marlowe. “Can we get ‘im down from there now?”
“Sure, I think we have all we need. I understand there was a witness.”
“Yeah, Timmy Varnes. Lives just the other side of that thicket there.” He nodded toward a cluster of trees to their left. “Got him in the house. Don’t need to see this.”
“No, of course not.” Marlowe watched a team work the “fork” free from the neck and chest and cut the corpse loose from its bindings. They gently laid it onto a plastic body bag and zipped it closed.
He followed the chief inside the cabin and found the boy sitting in a rocking chair near a picturesque window. The view was breathtaking, offering a panorama of the lake and rolling hills beyond. Grotesque brutality juxtaposed against rustic beauty seemed an affront to both Creator and nature. Perhaps Marshall’s intent. A middle finger to God and all He had made. Marlowe understood on some level he loathed to admit. Loss birthed a rage that needed to find a source to blame. He had struggled against those furious impulses for years. Only a shred of sanity, and the love of a daughter, pulled him from the ledge. Marshall had long ago leapt out into open air. Falling, the collision with hard truth waited. Though rational thought might now be beyond his capability to recapture, at some point, Marshall would realize no number of deaths could take his pain away. When that day came, Marlowe knew the man’s rage would burn everything and everyone around him to ash. If he didn’t stop him first.
“Timmy, this is Lieutenant Gentry. He needs you to answer some questions, okay?” The chief stepped back as Marlowe moved to crouch in front of the boy.
His eyes wide, his nose red, perhaps twelve, with a shaggy mop of blond h
air, Timmy peered at him like a frightened animal ready to bolt.
“It’s okay, son,” said Marlowe, keeping his voice soothing and even. “Can you tell me what you saw?”
“I come to go fishin’ with Brother Cecil, and I seen somethin’. Didn’t know what it was ‘til I got real close. I hid behind the shed.” His voice trembled almost as much as his hands and knees.
“What else?” urged Marlowe.
“I seen Brother Cecil hanging from the tree. Somebody’s poking him with this metal thing. I think it was burnin’ ‘im ‘cause he screamed and jerked around somethin’ awful. Scared me real bad.”
“I bet. And I’m sorry you had to see it. Did you get a look at the person hurting Brother Cecil?” asked Marlowe.
“No sir. There’s a big bush beside the shed. I could only see the thing when it poked him.”
Marlowe nodded. They knew what Marshall looked like, so not essential information, but always nice to have confirmation.
“Did you hear anything? Maybe they said something?”
“Brother Cecil had tape on his mouth, but I heard the other man say something.” Timmy wiggled in the chair, causing it to click clack against the wood floor.
“What did he say?”
Timmy scrunched his face in concentration. “Somethin’ about Brother Cecil not being the source. A bride…and children. Sorry, I don’t know what it means.”
Marlowe squeezed Timmy’s leg. “That’s okay. You’re doing great. Do you remember anything else?”
Timmy shook his head, long bangs whisking across his forehead. “No sir. I got scared when Brother Cecil was screamin’. I ran home. Came back when the cops got here. Figured they should know what I seen.”
“You were right, and very brave. Thank you, Timmy. A deputy will see you home now.” Marlowe stood and offered the boy a reassuring smile.
He watched the officer walk Timmy into the woods and felt a pang in his gut. It would be a long time before the kid slept a night through without a nightmare. Marlowe glanced down at his notepad—source, bride, children. His instincts rang with certainty—those three words were the key.
* * *
The team settled in at the Lee Police Department. The locals gave them a wide berth and complete use of the facility. They recreated the big board, laid out data sheets and backgrounds, and pored over the mountain of information. After the latest victim, pressure had ramped up from the capitol office. Big money donors in the north Alabama precincts squeezed the governor’s nuts, and he in turn grabbed for Marlowe’s. Shit poured downhill, everyone with a title before their names wanting this case solved yesterday.
Marlowe sat at one end of a long table, massaging his shoulder. The pieces were falling into place; he could almost see the picture clearly. Yet, something eluded him. He couldn’t quite put a finger on what, but it felt so close…He wrote the three words on his notepad in alternating orders, staring, willing the answers to leap from the page. Right there in front of him—the key—but how to decipher its meaning?
“Finally got the Social Security records.” Bateman handed out copies to the group. “Marshall wasn’t born Marshall. Birth certificate has him as Evan Stillman. Parents died in a house fire when he was eight. Several notes about Social Services monitoring suspected abuse. Not enough to remove him from the home, but enough to warrant a tag in the file. His grandmother adopted him and changed his name so it’d match hers.”
Marlowe read over the words again and looked up. “I’ve got a working theory. I believe he killed the first victim on impulse, heat of the moment. The daughter’s death triggered deep inner turmoil and he lashed out, killing Weaver, but that didn’t stop the pain, so he takes out Grayson. Marshall defines himself by his faith. Everyone we’ve spoken with describes him as devout, more so, fanatical, and other than his teaching and later the workshop, it seems he did little other than immerse himself in Bible study and activities associated with his church.” Marlowe sat back and tugged at his bottom lip. “I think he feels betrayed by God. He worshipped Him day and night, taught Sunday school, represented the church in the community, and what did he get for it? A dead kid and wife.” He stood and paced around the table. “Maybe he thinks the pastors lied to him and that’s why the confessional torturing, but I believe his goal is to kill his belief in God.”
“Makes sense, but relies on a lot of assumptions,” said Koop.
“No, it’s a classic psychotic break.” Kline glanced up from the stack of report she was perusing. “We see it often in serial cases with a strong sexual element. Usually a narcissistic personality where the killer sees themselves as desirable, but when rejected, a switch gets flipped. They become violent and attempt to eradicate feelings of inadequacy. Of course, they do this with the torture and murder of women, the objects of both desire and impotence.” She pointed to a photo of Evan Marshall. “The same idea applies here. Marshall defines himself by his religious beliefs. When he feels rejected or betrayed by God, he attempts to destroy the source of those feelings.”
“The source,” said Marlowe, tracing his finger down the page. “That’s the key. He can’t kill his faith. It runs too deep. Our witness said he heard the words source, bride, and children. What’s the source of belief in God?”
“Being taught, culture and environment,” said Koop. “The Bible, if you are speaking literally.”
“But it all comes from God in the mind of the believer, right? He reveals Himself.” Marlowe twirled a pen between his fingers and tapped it rapidly on the tabletop.
“You think he’s trying to kill God because he can’t destroy his faith?” Kline arched an eyebrow.
“Exactly. Follow the progression. Daughter dies, he has nothing left. Feels betrayed and tries to turn away from his belief, but it’s too much a part of him. So, torture and kill those spiritual teachers and counselors, force them to convince him his belief is a lie. Make them do for him what he can’t do for himself. But they can’t give him what he needs. God still exists. The only recourse now…destroy God. How though? That’s the trick.”
The others stared at him with nothing to offer.
“God is in Heaven or roaming the ether, unseen, intangible.” Marlowe stuck the pen in the corner of his mouth and narrowed his eyes. “What would make God reveal Himself in the flesh?”
“God isn’t flesh. According to the Bible, he appeared as a burning bush or a cloud. Moses is said to have seen his backside.” Koop couldn’t contain a snicker. “Jesus is considered God in the flesh to Christians.”
“We’re out of the literal realm now. Think like Marshall. What could he do to make God appear to him? Bride, children. Those are the other words the kid heard. Marshall lost his wife and child and believes he is fighting to avenge them in his own way. The church is called the bride of Christ, and believers, God’s children.”
“Shit,” breathed Kline. “You think he’s going to start targeting Christians generally? We’ll have no way to predict his moves. We’ll have to rely on someone spotting him, which will happen eventually, but how many can he kill before then?
“No, I don’t think so. I think Lee Fellowship represents a part of the source. God’s house. The place God will come to defend,” said Marlowe.
“An eloquent metaphor, Marlowe, but a substantial leap.” Koop removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “He has killed his two primary influences at Lee. There is no reason to suspect the building symbolizes anything greater to him. The first murder took place in the forest, the third in a shack, and the last at a lakeside cabin. Only the second was performed in a church building, and likely for convenience sake rather than statement.”
“Maybe. I do see your point, but I feel certain. The church stood as his first sanctuary. It offered him purpose and relief from his parents’ abuse. The church represents the genesis of his belief.” Marlowe gazed at Koop, needing reassurance, confirmation.
“Your instincts in these cases are quite frightening and have proved correct too oft
en to contest,” said Koop.
“I’m not sure, but it’s the only theory that gives us a target location,” said Kline.
Marlowe grunted. “Hmm, grab some nice clothes. Sunday, we’re all going to church.”
CHAPTER
28
An odd sensation washed over Marlowe, relief mingling with foreboding. Each murder offered new pieces to the puzzle and once they clicked into place, he knew. Kline was right, so many variables. Marshall could target random pastors next, or Christians in general, or hell, anyone for that matter. Nevertheless, Marlowe knew. His instincts, finely honed and supplemented with an innate gift or curse…he knew. The point of final confrontation drew near, heating and chilling his blood in equal measure.
Marlowe massaged the back of his neck. So little sleep lately, and still he felt wired, antsy. The waiting always proved the toughest part of the job. With any luck, someone would spot Marshall before Sunday and render his plan moot. However, in his experience, fortune rarely intervened to avoid calamity. He didn’t like to count on luck. Nope, cover all the bases ad nauseam. But this time the Heretic controlled the bases, and they would need a bit of luck to bring him down. Marlowe’s thoughts meandered directionless, drifting contingent to contingent, when the phone in his jacket pocket buzzed.
“Becca, hey, I was just about to call…”
“Marlowe, Paige is missing. W-we had a fight and she ran away. No one knew… I-I’m sorry.” With Becca blabbering in tears, Marlowe caught every other word, but Paige is missing drilled through the sobs and into his heart.
“What are you telling me?” he asked in a whisper.
“She’s gone, Marlowe. We can’t find her.”
“I’m on my way.”
The Dark Age_A Marlowe Gentry Thriller Page 24